Monday, March 30, 2015

World Without End

We shine with but a brief and borrowed light,
from orb to orb reflected  down the years,
a pale fire  filched, rekindled, and passed on.

So too that which our loins bequeath
already bear the seeds of their own spawn:
We sow, as we were sown.

Lord, but a boon:  again  threescore-and-ten
that I may seek anew what long I sought.
In time, I might grow wise.

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